


For Ourselves

by ScopesMonkey



Series: Sugarverse [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-19
Updated: 2012-07-19
Packaged: 2017-11-10 07:06:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/463558
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScopesMonkey/pseuds/ScopesMonkey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock run into some of John's old army mates whose prejudices test Sherlock's patience.</p>
            </blockquote>





	For Ourselves

**Author's Note:**

  * For [benedough](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=benedough).



> Based on a prompt from benedough on tumblr.

Food shopping was far more tolerable now, even if John did have a tendency to send him off to find the biscuits for himself.

In fact, everything was far more tolerable now – with the possible exception of Mycroft.  Sherlock suspected England was likely to sink into the sea before his brother became what he considered a reasonable human being.  At least Mycroft had had the decency to stop bugging the flat, although this was likely for his own sake rather than Sherlock’s.  Still, it was an improvement.

Sherlock even found more satisfaction in mundane things such as eating and sleeping now.  Well, perhaps not sleeping per se, but certainly spending time in bed.  He smiled as he regarded the shelf of biscuits.  John was surprising in so many ways.  Whenever Sherlock believed he had the doctor figured out, John would do something to prove him wrong.  He had appreciated it when they had first become flatmates; he appreciated it so much more now.

Quite simply, John made him happy.

Years ago, he had imagined that cocaine approximated the sensation; certainly the high had made him _feel_ happy, but he hadn’t _been_ happy. Not when Mycroft had lectured him about it. Not when his mother had given him those disappointed, pitying looks.  Not when Lestrade had thrown him into the back of a police car, covered in his own sick but stripped of his dignity.

John had therefore succeeded in making both Sherlock and his family happy, which was no mean feat. 

He realised abruptly that it had been three minutes and six seconds since he had been sent to get the biscuits and if John came to look for him they’d have to spend longer in the shop. Shopping had become less tedious but Sherlock still had no desire to stretch out the experience any more than necessary. They were wasting valuable time during which they could be at home in bed. There were a number of noises he had heard from John for the first time last night and he was intent on recreating the circumstances to see if John repeated them.

He selected a random package of biscuits (oat based, covered in chocolate – could be appetising) then wandered back through the shop until he found John – standing with two men he’d never seen before.  He evaluated them quickly; unarmed and posed no threat, but making John was tense.  Both men had the same military bearing as the doctor but were more recently returned from overseas.  Neither of them were holding themselves in such a way to suggest injury, so they’d either been discharged at the end of their tours or were back in England for a short time before being redeployed. 

Sherlock approached enough to overhear their conversation but not so much that it appeared he was with John.  He saw his partner’s eyes flash toward him but he stayed where he was, wanting to better understand the situation.  John was uneasy but it was unclear as to why.  He had tensed up even more as Sherlock had moved toward them.

He evaluated each man individually now. The first: approximately John’s age, six foot tall, brown eyes and hair, tanned, a smattering of freckles across a nose that had been broken twice (once in childhood, again more recently). Sherlock disliked the man’s mouth – even when smiling it had a twist of cruelness to it. He held himself effortlessly, a brash man unconcerned about what others thought of him, so most likely a captain. A regular soldier, not a doctor.

The second: mid-thirties, dark skinned tanned even darker, shorter than his companion but taller than John, about five-foot-ten. Sherlock suspected he was a medical officer, but not a doctor. Possibly a nurse, but most likely a medic. Also of relatively high rank, given how relaxed he seemed in the other men’s presence, but probably a lieutenant based on his younger age. The confident set of his shoulders and stance bordered on aggressiveness despite the cheery smile on his face.

John didn’t like them, that much was obvious. He wondered whether he should rescue his partner from this unwelcome encounter but when the older man spoke, John’s reaction made Sherlock hesitate.

“Oh, yeah, remember when McTavish tore a strip off of Jenkins for ruining those tires?  Fuck, that man was uptight about the trucks.”

Sherlock frowned at a can of peas. He didn’t know who McTavish was because John didn’t speak much about the people he had met during service, but noted that immediately upon hearing the name, John stiffened and shifted his weight to favour his right leg.

“Well Jenkins nearly got three people killed by being a dick,” John said.  Sherlock frowned again; it wasn’t like John to use that sort of language when describing someone else, even if he was angry.

The younger man scoffed.

“Come off it, John, it wasn’t as bad as Hicks made it out to sound.  Jenkins was just having a bit of fun, but Hicks was always so worried about that boyfriend of his.”

“Ha!  Thought the rest of us didn’t know!  What a poof,” the older man commented with an unpleasant laugh.  Sherlock felt his nostrils flare and a retort rise to his lips but the soldier continued:  “Speaking of camp romances, how’s Remsen?”

This time, it was John’s nostrils that flared and Sherlock was certain the two idiots to whom John was speaking didn’t notice.  He felt a flash of anger course through him as well – he didn’t know Tricia Remsen because she was still in Afghanistan, but he knew that John cared for her.  He also knew that John regarded her as something of a sister and had no romantic interest in her, but that his former unit had considered them a couple.  Apparently, that notion had not been dispelled and Sherlock felt a sharp indignation.  John was _his_.

“Captain Remsen is fine,” John said, and there was a hard hint beneath his voice, one that Sherlock had long ago identified as being serious.  Apparently, these two were far more imbecilic than he’d initially believed, because they remained unaware.

“I was surprised she took another two years,” the older man commented.  “With you here and all.”

John just shrugged, keeping his expression neutral.  Sherlock angled his head toward them slightly, feeling a cold anger start to well up inside of him.

“Hey, now that we’re back, we should all go for a pint,” the younger man said and Sherlock swallowed on a snarl.  He was hardly going to let John to be dragged out with these two for more unpleasantness.

John shook his head.

“Sorry, I can’t.  It’s been busy – you know, work and all.  My schedule’s a mess.”

The older man laughed.

“Oh, come off it, Watson, don’t be gay!  You can find time for a night at the pub with your old mates.”

Sherlock’s temper snapped and he spun, striding down the aisle toward John and the two insufferable morons who were wasting his partner’s time and using up valuable oxygen in the process.  John had clenched his hands into fists and cocked his head to the side slightly, tightening his jaw against a response.  Sherlock pressed up against him, ostensibly to toss the package of biscuits into the shopping basket in John’s left hand.  He was close enough to force John’s right fist open and clasp his hand around it without the other two men seeing it.  He felt John relax ever so slightly.

“Got the biscuits,” Sherlock said.  “What else?”  Then he looked up as though noticing the two other men for the first time and gave them a bright, cheery smile.  “Oh, hello, friends of John’s, are you?  Marvellous.  So pleased to meet you, I’m sure.”

He felt John sigh softly.

“Captain Tom Oldham and Lieutenant Darryl St. Hilaire,” the doctor said, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

“Newly back from Afghanistan then,” Sherlock said, noting the surprised expressions both men wore.  “Is it difficult to readjust to civilian life?  It must be problematic for you, Lieutenant St. Hilaire, to have to purchase everything yourself. Child support payments evidently don’t leave you with much left over to buy new clothing.”

St. Hilaire froze, his expression becoming a mask of shock that bordered on terror.  His eyes flickered desperately to John, who looked as confused as Oldham.

“He doesn’t have a kid,” the captain said.

Sherlock twitched his eyebrows up.

“Doesn’t he.”

Oldham rounded an accusatory gaze on the younger man, who refused to meet his eyes.

“Who the hell are you then?” St. Hilaire snapped.

“Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective,” Sherlock replied, letting his voice drop a notch, taking on a dark hint of carefully honed menace. 

“What, the flatmate?” the lieutenant asked.  Sherlock opened his mouth to reply but John beat him to it.

“He’s my partner,” the doctor replied levelly.

Both men frowned at John.

“You work together?” Oldham asked.

“We sleep together,” Sherlock said in a cold voice.  “Incidentally, are you aware that the original definition of the word ‘gay’ is ‘beautiful’ or ‘noble’?  Given the derision with which you spoke to John, I’m sure this is not the meaning you had in mind, although I find his actions both beautiful and noble on a regular basis.  It’s one of the things I appreciate most about him.  Of course you, Captain Oldham, would have difficulty understanding that, since these concepts don’t apply to your personality.  You should give them some consideration – perhaps then you’d find it easier to meet women who might actually be _interested_ in you, as difficult as that is for me to imagine.”

“What?” Oldham snapped, visibly bristling, his brown eyes glinting.  “Oi, what the hell would you know about women anyway?  Or about me?”

“I admit that women are not my area of expertise but it’s not a difficult conclusion to draw that the majority of them prefer to be treated as human beings with minds and interests of their own rather than as accessories to men.  I’m sure if Captain Remsen were here, she’d agree with me – although I acknowledge her right to form her own opinions on the matter.”  He saw John’s lips twitch into a bare smile at that and felt a stab of triumph.  “As for you, your lack of any success since your return is clearly indicated by the contents of your shopping basket.”

“What?  My basket?  What the hell does that tell you?”

“The food you’re purchasing suggests that you aren’t intending to impress anyone else – unless, of course, you assume that a woman your age will be impressed by cheap tinned food normally only ever braved by university students.  The pre-packaged, highly processed foods and the ready made meals for one are also a good indication.  Nothing fresh and nothing that would require a significant amount of preparation.  But it’s the large amounts of tissue that give you away.”

He felt another stab of triumph when Oldham coloured bright red.

“You live alone and don’t have a cold, nor do you appear to be suffering from any allergies, and yet you feel it necessary to buy two large boxes of tissues. The skin on your left hand is dry but your right hand is suspiciously well moisturised. Conclusion: you’ve been taking care of yourself.”

He saw the anger welling up, bringing with it a litany of retorts.  John was pursing his lips now, trying not to laugh.

“Come on, John, we haven’t got all day and the company here is somewhat lacking.”

John glanced up at him, brown eyes gleaming.

“You’re right,” he agreed.  “Important things to do.”  He turned back to the two offended men watching them.  “You know how it is.  Welcome back to London.  Try not to think too much of yourselves.  I’m sure the rest of the unit was happy to see you leave.  I know I hope to never see you again.”

He stepped past them and Sherlock followed, keeping himself far enough back that they had to stretch their arms between them somewhat.  Sherlock was gratified to see both men’s eyes flash down and register the fact that John was holding his hand tightly and wasn’t giving any indication of letting go.

The detective gave them a bright, friendly smile on his way by, delighted by their shocked looks.  As he disappeared around the corner, he threw a little wave back in their direction.  He dealt with the automatic register, then followed the doctor outside.  John took his hand again, squeezing it lightly.

“I– thanks,” he said.

“No thanks necessary, John.”

John took the shopping back from him and nodded.

“I know.  I was– No one liked them.  I never thought I’d see them again.  They were so… well, you saw how they were.  I just– I don’t want you to think I’m ashamed of you.”

Sherlock gave him a surprised look.

“I don’t think you’re ashamed of me, John. I’d have picked up on that by now – I _do_ have a talent for deduction. You may have noticed.” John gave him a wry smile but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Are you ashamed of yourself?”

John stopped short and Sherlock halted as well.

“What?” John asked, his startled voice coloured with a hint of hurt.

“You’ve yet to make any comments regarding our relationship on your blog. No, John. Before you construe this as a complaint, be sure I’m quite happy _not_ having my personal life broadcast across the Internet. However,” he gave John a small but genuine smile, “I’ve grown used to it since meeting you. And I know you enjoy telling people about your life – but the only people you have told so far are your mother, Harry, and Tricia.”

John stared at him, expression stunned, his eyes searching Sherlock’s face.  He licked his lips nervously.

“It’s not that,” he said and Sherlock detected no trace of a lie in his voice.  “I just– this is new for me, Sherlock.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“And for me,” he pointed out.  John pursed his lips and nodded.

“I know,” he said.  “I wasn’t sure you’d want me telling everyone, either.”

Sherlock shrugged lightly.

“I’ve told everyone I deem necessary and Mycroft knows because he’s insufferable. I expect that eventually Lestrade will figure it out and possibly Donovan will too, because she could be quite bright if she’d allow herself to be – in which case Anderson will find out. And because they’re police officers, they will gossip.  Eventually the entire Yard will know. I expected you to want to avoid that tedious process and inform everyone yourself.”

John’s eyes slipped away, looking at nothing for a moment, then down at their joined hands.

“Ourselves,” he said.

“Sorry?” Sherlock asked.

“Ourselves, Sherlock, we’ll tell everyone ourselves.  I’ll post it on my blog, but we’ll write the post together.  We’ll go home and do that right now, in fact.”

Sherlock’s lips stretched into a slow smile as John leant up to kiss him.

“If that’s what you want,” he said.

“Yes,” John replied, his breath warm against Sherlock’s lips.  “It is.”


End file.
